Batman: The Art of War
by BlackCapricornDay
Summary: A tale of the young Bruce Wayne, global traveller. Probably complete, unless I get more ideas.


**Two fanfics in two weeks? I'm on a roll. Hope you enjoy this story set during Bruce Wayne's early days. I obviously do not own any DC characters. Let me know what you think. Constructive criticism is always a good thing.**

**Batman: The Art of War**

"Stranger, can you spare a few _fen _for an old man?"

The hulking man stares down at me in disgust. "Get out of my sight, beggar! Why would I give you my hard-earned pay so you can spend it on drink?" He spits into my wooden bowl. "If you want sympathy, beg somewhere else, not in front of a tavern!"

Then the man raises his hand as if to strike me. I cringe, putting my hands in front of my face. He lowers his hand and laughs. "Stupid old fool!"

He continues into the tavern, still laughing. The smell of beer and a prostitute's perfume is on him already, even this early in the evening. Fang's men have already begun to spend even though the money from their transaction is not yet in their hands. Inwardly, I smile, although my face remains a mask of fear and weakness.

Then I see Fang. He walks towards the tavern in a heavy coat, glancing into the crowd cautiously. From his gait, I can tell that he remains sober and alert, unlike his boorish cronies. His face is scarred and weathered, and he carries himself like one who is a student of _wushu_. He approaches the tavern, and I meet his eye. He reaches into his coat pocket and drops a coin into my bowl.

"For good karma," he says, "which I may need tonight."

"A hundred thanks, kind stranger," I tell him.

His eyes dart to the side, to a figure clad in a black robe who is walking briskly on the other side of the street, weaving among passers-by. I do not let my gaze rest upon him.

Fang drops another coin into my bowl. "They say that the Fenghuang roams these streets at night. Perhaps my benevolence will grant me honour in his eyes."

I drop my bowl and clap excitedly. "I have heard tell of the Fenghuang, the phoenix of justice! I heard he once used his Qi Gong to defeat an army of thieves! Do you think that the stories may be true, that he may be a spirit of justice sent from the Heavenly Bureaucracy to aid us in this time of chaos?"

"Things are never what they seem," Fang says, distracted. Then he leaves me and enters the tavern.

I wait a half hour after he has gone, amassing a small pile of coins from passers-by for the monastery, then take my bowl and limp away.

I slip into an alley, and my limp disappears. Seating myself in a corner, secluded by some sacks of rice, I say, "Fang saw you."

The black-clad figure emerges from a doorway. "I am sorry, Master," he says in rough Mandarin. "I tried to blend in."

"I did not tell you to blend in," I tell him sternly. "I told you not to be there."

The young foreigner pulls back his hood. "But you told me to watch Fang's men! How can I watch them without being there? There is still daylight! Did you want me to climb onto a roof top or something?"

I stare at him, wondering if the elders had been right, and if I had indeed been mistaken in allowing this troubled young man to leave the walls of our monastery.

_Patience,_ I tell myself.

"Bruce," I say calmly, "as I have told you many times, there are ways that you may be physically present, and yet not present. You must fully become a part of your environment. This is true invisibility. Remember what I told you about the principle of yin and yang."

A look of frustration crosses Bruce's face. I am not surprised. I have lectured him at great length about yin and yang, and yet he refuses to learn. The elders believe his western mind is incapable of understanding the subtleties of the ancient teachings, but I believe he simply refuses to acknowledge his own weakness.

"Your mind is imbalanced," I tell him. "You are driven by the yang principle, the dominating principle. You are a slave to your anger. To fully master yourself, you must embody the yin principle, and submit yourself to your environment and to the Way of nature. You must make yourself like water, flowing passively through the world around you. For water is…"

"The weakest of all substances, but can erode the hardest stone," he interrupts me, derision in his voice. "You have mentioned that before, I think. Once or twice."

I feel a surge of anger at the impudent young foreigner. No Chinese student would talk back to a teacher in such a way. Almost immediately, though, I acknowledge the anger, and wonder to myself if my pupil is trying to cause me to lose my composure. He is testing me, perhaps. I remember not to underestimate him.

"I only repeat myself because I fear you do not listen the first time. Bruce, if you truly wish to make yourself into an instrument of justice, you must listen to what I say. I am not spouting meaningless platitudes like one of your American 'self-help' gurus. You say you deplore guns and the needless taking of life. Well, your enemies do not share the same feelings as you, and they are innumerable. I cannot in good conscience allow you to begin this 'war on crime' you wish to wage without teaching you the true art of war. Do you think that your blind anger and your brute strength will allow you to carry the day against a thousand enemies with guns? You will suffer the same fate as your parents, bleeding to death on the city streets, and your city will be no better for it."

His fist clenches. I feel a surge of compassion for the wounded boy, but know what must be said. I continue, "Now you feel anger against me, and against your parents' murderer, and against yourself for not being able to prevent their deaths. Your anger imbalances you, and you are frightened, and you channel that fear into aggression. Does it make you angry that I point out your weakness? Would you prefer that your enemies notice it and use it against you?"

"Enough!" Bruce growls.

"No. It is I who has had enough. I am beginning to believe the elders were right. I cannot train you. You lack the discipline to understand wushu. Your pitiable condition dishonours your parents."

He lunges at me. Still crouching, I redirect the uncontrolled force of his Qi, seize him by the arm, and flip him over my head. He lands on his back upon the sacks of rice behind me.

Catching his breath, he says, "You knew I was going to do that."

"Of course. Words are sometimes too subtle."

"Do you really think I cannot learn wushu?"

I look down at the young man, still lying on his back upon the spilled rice. "Bruce," I tell him, "your commitment and discipline in physical training is truly exceptional. It is rare to see one as dedicated as you. However, to truly master wushu and yourself, you must learn mental and emotional discipline. The mind and the body are as yin and yang, and if the disciple of wushu is unbalanced in these, he is only half a warrior."

"I will work harder, Master."

I look into his eyes. He is determined; of that there is no doubt. Still, I wonder whether it will be enough.

"See that you do. For now, we must meditate, and prepare for the coming battle."

# # #

"You observed these men before, when they were entering the tavern. What did you see?"

We are at the docks now, watching from behind a pile of crates as Fang and his men stand around an unmarked black van, illuminated by the street lamps' pale light. Many of them carry Russian-made assault rifles. Some are listing back and forth from overindulgence in beer and wine at the tavern.

Bruce whispers, "They are overconfident. They think this deal is going to go ahead without difficulty, and make them wealthy. Some were already drunk."

"And now?"

"Now they are even more drunk."

"What about Fang?" I ask him.

He peers at the men through the misty darkness. "I see him there, up against the van. It looks like he is trying to keep his balance. He is drunk, too. Maybe they should not have met at the tavern to arrange this deal!"

Fang stumbles, then steadies himself against the van, clutching a pistol. "What is your impression of Fang?"

"Seems like your typical mid-level criminal to me."

I fix Bruce with a piercing stare. "Remember what I told you, Bruce, about the art of war. You must know your enemy if you are to defeat him, lest you mistake his strength for weakness. Things are not always as they seem. We must be cautious."

Chastened, he replies, "Of course, Master."

"Now," I tell him, "let us plan our attack. You see how close their van is to the harbour. I will embody yang, the direct principle. I will become the Phoenix, and their fears and anxieties will be focused upon me. During this time, you will embody yin as the Dark Phoenix, my shadow self, and will travel around and behind them and strike when they do not expect it. Remember that it is not we two men who strike them, for two unarmed men cannot prevail against seven men with guns. They will be struck by the heavenly principle of justice, for which we are as a single conduit, and no amount of men can withstand such a force. You must submit to this principle and remove your ego from this battle so that the inevitable may come to pass."

"Yes, Master," he says, and I wonder if he is truly listening. After a moment, he points to an approaching car. "Look. Their contacts are here."

Three more armed men step out of the car. I whisper to Bruce, "That man in the lead is a lieutenant in the city police. He makes a mockery of his station as upholder of the law by being here."

"It reminds me of home," Bruce says.

Fang's men open the back doors of the van and bring out a small sack. It is opium, I realize, from war-torn Afghanistan. They bring the sack to the lieutenant, who investigates its contents.

"Now," I say to Bruce. "Go."

He pulls his black hood over his head and disappears into the night, climbing down to the shoreline. I reach into my robe and pull out my multicoloured cape, and unwrap the silver mask of the Phoenix. The street lamp reflects off of its long, downward-pointed beak, and the intricate painting of the feathers can be seen in the dim light.

I don the costume and transform myself into the Fenghuang, the Phoenix Spirit of Justice.

Focusing my Qi, I leap over the boxes and hurl several small smoke grenades in the direction of the criminals. They explode with a flash, sending smoke billowing into the air. I charge forward and close upon one of the police officers, focusing my Qi into my hand and striking him in the chest. He flies backwards, bouncing off his car. Before he hits the ground, I am already upon a second officer, grabbing the hand that holds his gun and snapping his arm backwards, breaking it. Howling, he drops to the ground.

The lieutenant reaches for his pistol. I breathe deeply, then fire a blast of external Qi in his direction. This disorients him long enough for me to close on him, grab his pistol, and drive my knee into his stomach. He drops, winded.

To his men, Fang shouts, "Fire, fools! Fire!"

I drop another smoke grenade and leap behind the police officers' car as a hail of machine gun fire erupts from Fang's men. It sprays wildly around the car; their aim is greatly impaired by drink. I crawl to the other end of the car, and spot a dark shape emerging from the edge of the dock, some distance from Fang's van. Bruce has been agitated by the gunfire, I realize, and has chosen to approach them from an angle that is less strategic than I had hoped. Perhaps he fears to lose me to the bullets of criminals as he lost his parents. Perhaps he sees me as a surrogate parent of sorts. I realize that I must discuss this with him later.

With a few well-placed blows, he downs two of Fang's men. Fang sees him, and fires his pistol wildly in Bruce's direction. Bruce rolls to the side, positioning himself so that the van obstructs Fang's line of fire.

Fang, moving steadily, gestures to his men to surround me, then stumbles around the side of the van, lurching as if he is going to fall. Only then do I realize his gambit, for which Bruce falls completely. As Fang collects himself, Bruce springs at him, exploiting what he perceives to be Fang's drunkenness.

But Fang is not drunk, I realize. He is a practitioner of Zui Quan, the Drunken Fist. He easily parries Bruce's attack and lands a hard blow against the side of his head.

Bruce crashes against the van and falls to the ground, and I see Fang reaching for his pistol.

In desperation, I vault over the car at the four men headed toward me, uttering a loud battle-cry to distract Fang. I bring my palm into the face of one of the men, knocking him to the ground, and spin, focusing my Qi into my left hand and striking another man hard in the ribs. He falls backward into a third man, and they drop, crashing to the ground in a drunken heap.

But the fourth, the brute I encountered outside the tavern, fires his gun at me. Although his aim is erratic, he strikes me in the arm. Pain lances through me, and I clutch my wound, dropping to my knees.

Grinning, he points his gun at me and pulls the trigger. My heart skips a beat.

But it clicks ineffectually, its magazine empty.

He stares, dumbfounded, as I climb back to my feet. He glances toward the van, and Fang shouts, "Kill him! Now!"

The lout grips his assault rifle by the barrel and brandishes it like a club, then swings it, hard, towards my head. I close my eyes and summon my Qi for the Iron Skin technique.

The steel of the gun smashes against the side of my head, bending against my immobile stance. He drops the bent weapon, his eyes wide with shock, and I strike him in the chest with both hands. There is the sickening cracking of rib bones, and he falls to the ground, groaning.

Fang wastes no time in firing his pistol at me, and it strikes me in the back, glancing off of the vest I wear underneath my garments. When his gun is empty, I turn to him, still clutching my arm, my head ringing from the blow. He drops his gun.

"Fenghuang of Justice," he says to me, his voice measured. "I can see what must come to pass. But before we fight, know this. I transgress the divinely-mandated order of things with my crimes. But how can one be just in a world so unjust, a world in which my father, a scholar unsurpassed in wisdom, can be forced by his students to testify against himself, against the ancient ways, and to be made into a dunce, an object of ridicule for all to see? The ancient ways are gone, Fenghuang. The world has turned upside-down. The wisdom of the sages has no meaning in these times, and you have seen what the enforcers of law have become. I can see that you are a Qi Gong Master. The law of the land has turned against you, has imprisoned many of your fellows, and forced you to live in secret. And yet you still speak of justice?"

"The heavenly principle of justice is eternal," I tell him, "and there will always be those who will allow themselves to be its agents. It existed before the laws of men, and abides despite men's machinations. Stand down now; it is not too late for you to align yourself with the mandate of the heavens."

"I will not," Fang says, defiant.

"Then I will defeat you, and justice will prevail." There is steel in my words, but I struggle to steady myself. I concentrate, trying to slow my heart rate to prevent blood loss.

"Perhaps you will, perhaps not. And if I should die, may I incarnate in a more favourable world."

He lists forward, then back again, shifting his weight wildly. I struggle to synchronize my Qi with his, to anticipate his movements, but the pain dulls my concentration. He swings with heavy blows, landing several against my chest. I stumble back, trying in vain to summon the Qi to make myself impervious. I begin to feel like a drunkard myself as the world spins around me, and the form of my attacker blurs…

And then he lurches forward heavily and falls to the ground. Bruce stands behind him in a combat stance, his arm outstretched, his palm open.

"I do a pretty mean Iron Fist myself," he says to me.

"Not a moment too soon," I tell him, relieved.

"Are you alright, Master? It looked like Fang shot you in the back."

I reach around to my back, feeling the Kevlar underneath my torn robes. "Sometimes," I tell him, "Qi must be supplemented by more… material things."

He looks around. "The lieutenant escaped. I… I apologize for my recklessness, Master. I should have waited for a more opportune time to strike. The gunfire…"

"It is alright, my son," I tell him. "Sometimes words are not enough to convey lessons of such gravity. Please… let us return to the monastery. I am in need of medical care. The police will come soon, and make a show of arresting these men."

Bruce places several charges on the van. Managing a smile, I say to him, "Perhaps, someday, you will have a disciple who brings you as much trouble as you have brought to me."

"Perhaps that is reason enough for me to work alone," he retorts, smirking. "So. Did I embody the yin principle well enough at the end?"

"It was… satisfactory," I tell him. "There may be hope for you yet, young foreigner."

The van catches fire behind us as we walk into the night, pupil and master, yin and yang.


End file.
